


b-side.

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: “Let me get this straight.” Or try to, anyway. Things were never straightforward with Peter, not even before he went crazy. Derek said, “You and Chris Argent?”The sigh was a rush of static, and he could practically see Peter rolling his eyes. “Yes, Derek, that’s what I said. Frankly, I’m surprised that’s what you’re choosing to focus on out of everything here.”“He hates you.”“All in the past,” Peter said airily.





	1. fyi, this is your social call.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a compilation of some things i wrote just because i wanted to as extras to part of a universe with my rp buddy. 
> 
> tldr; peter and chris get together through a series of events, peter becomes alpha again and ends up having to bite chris, chris turns into a werewolf, and the rest is tba! 
> 
> i don't know if these will make sense to anyone else, but i figured i'd post them here anyway because why not.

“Wait,” Derek interrupted, “back up. What did you just say?”

“About Beacon Hills remaining a Hellmouth in its own right and how you should remember that if you were thinking of visiting any time soon?” Peter’s voice, even translated over the airwaves, was smooth as honey, carefully careless. But Derek knew him better. 

“No, I meant the part where you said Argent’s a werewolf now, and the other bit where you said you were an Alpha again, Peter. Plus all the stuff before that. What the hell is going on?” 

A long story, said Peter. Derek's grip on his phone was so tight that the aluminum was dented like butter under his fingers by the end of Peter’s update. 

“Let me get this straight.” Or try to, anyway. Things were never straightforward with Peter, not even before he went crazy. Derek said, “You and Chris Argent?”

Peter's sigh was a rush of static, and Derek could practically see him rolling his eyes. “Yes, Derek, that’s what I said. Frankly, I’m surprised that’s what you’re choosing to focus on out of everything here.”

“He hates you.” 

“All in the past,” Peter said airily.

“What did you do to him?”

“Why do you automatically assume that I did something to him?” 

“Because that’s what you do.” 

“I won him over,” Peter said, “with my charm and wit.” 

Derek snorted.

“Also, he was lonely.” 

“So you took advantage of that,” Derek said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He’d ask why nobody’s said anything to him until now about everything that’s happened, but knowing Peter, he made sure no one knew until it was too late to stop him. That and he hadn’t given anyone his number or told them where he was going. He wasn’t even sure how Peter managed to call him.

“Yes,” said Peter, “I did. But is that so terrible? I was alone too. Now neither of us are.” 

Part of him wanted to point out that Peter was alone because he was a total psychopath and a killer and that he’d destroyed everything with his own two hands, but something stopped him. Him and Laura, they’d left him behind too. The same way he and Cora did again so recently. But he hadn’t been able to deal with Peter anymore, with the Peter who wasn’t the same man that taught him control and rewarded him with Reese’s cups and let him ride his motorcycle. He was the Peter who killed Laura, who killed everyone responsible for the fire, who killed Kate, tore up the psyche of a teenage girl just to claw his way back out from the grave, and tried to kill Scott. 

The power play wasn’t a surprise to Derek. He knew Peter craved power. All he was was relieved that no one had died for it this time around.

Peter was still talking. “Chris isn’t under any delusions about my character, apart from the one where he believes I can be reformed, and I think he’d be offended that you don’t trust him to make his own decisions in who he sleeps with.” 

“You’re not just sleeping together, you’re living together,” Derek said, stuck on the familiar way Peter said Chris Argent’s name. How he called him by his first name at all. 

“Surprise,” Peter said. “That’s what adults do when they get serious.” 

“Are you sure he’s not going through a midlife crisis?”

There’s a bark of laughter from the other end. “Funny. He told me Scott and the others asked the same thing.” 

Words were hard for Derek on a good day, and his vocabulary failed him spectacularly now. He’s left staring at his phone and wondering if he should pinch himself. Check whether or not the phone call he’d gotten out of the blue from Peter which had begun with Peter steamrolling over any attempts by Derek to hang up by talking for five minutes straight, ignoring everything Derek said was actually happening. 

He pinched himself. 

It hurt, and his skin went red before fading back to normal. 

“So why are you telling me all this?”

“I thought you deserved an update,” Peter said. “Would you have wanted to come back to town without knowing anything about what’s going on?” 

“I’m not going back,” Derek said. 

“You never know.” 

“Is this what this is about?” 

“We’re still family, Derek.” 

Laura stepped between them as surely as though she was still alive, and he could almost feel her punching his shoulder. He closed his eyes. “Laura.” 

“Talia. James.” Closing his eyes didn't stop him from hearing Peter list the names of the dead. His mom, his dad, his aunt and uncle, his cousins, and finally, “Ava.” 

Aunt Ava.

“I don’t have an excuse for what I did to Laura,” Peter said. Derek braced himself. This was the part where Peter would bring up Kate. What Derek did by letting Kate in, by telling her all their secrets. He was the reason why their family was gone. There’s a pause, Peter’s breathing even and quiet on the other end of the line. “But we could be pack again, regardless of whether or not you choose to return to Beacon Hills. That’s what Talia would’ve wanted.” 

“Mom wouldn’t have wanted any of this,” Derek said. 

“It’s what we have now,” Peter said, “that matters.”

Trying to understand Peter usually gave Derek a headache, and today was no exception. Did he mean the family they had left? Chris Argent? What was left?

He chanced it. “Do you actually care about him? At all?” 

“Care about who?”

Over the phone, Derek couldn't see Peter's expression. Couldn't hear his heart either, but Peter was always able to fool everyone in the family whenever he lied. There's only his word to work with. 

“Peter,” he growled.

Silence.

“He nearly died, and I—” Peter cut himself off, the audible frustration smoothing out after a beat. “If anyone deserves to hear a confession of my feelings, it's Chris.”

“I'm going to take that as a yes, since you're avoiding the question.” 

“I can’t tell if this is worse or better than the constant brooding,” Peter said.

“You should tell him,” he said.

“I don't think you should be giving anyone relationship advice with your track record,” Peter retorted. 

It stung, like it always did. Derek's just surprised it took so long for Peter to aim a jab at him. “All right, we're done here.”

“Derek.” 

There’s an almost uncertain note to Peter’s voice that Derek wasn’t used to hearing.

“What?”

“Chris was a hunter. Now he’s a werewolf. His allies are his enemies now.”

“I won't tell anyone,” he said, and hung up.


	2. happy birthday to you, you're a hundred and two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second before they stepped into the backyard, he heard Stiles hissing out _shhh, they're coming_ \-- and the instant they stepped out into open air, there was a chorus of _happy birthday!_ , confetti popping into the air. It's a motley crew, most of the older pack present: Stiles, Malia, even Lydia, Melissa, Stilinski Sr, Parrish, and of course, Scott. 
> 
> "Oh," Peter said, glancing at beside him and feigning surprise, "is it your birthday, Chris?"
> 
> Chris elbowed him in the side and shot him a look. Peter resisted the urge to bat his eyelashes at him.

Truth was, he hadn’t been entirely honest when Chris asked him if he’d tried to talk Scott out of throwing a surprise birthday party. He was the one who’d mentioned Chris’s birthday in a casual passing to the boy, and did absolutely nothing to stop Scott from formulating the when, where, and what. All he did was, as he told Chris, tell Scott Chris would appreciate minimal fuss.

Chris might be showing remarkable control over his new werewolf abilities, but Peter was born and raised a werewolf. He’s known just how to fool the good old listening in on a heartbeat trick for a sign of a lie since he was ten years old and had a smile that couldn’t melt butter. 

But in the McCall’s driveway, Chris’s reluctance to get out of the car was palpable, with or without the pack bond. It seeped from every pore and was written all over his face. 

“If you really don't want to go, I can come up with an excuse. Tell them I don't feel like sharing you today, or something else,” Peter said. Chris had been against any celebrations from the start, out of what Peter put down as a determination to never have anything nice for himself. Having a slice of cake with just the two of them in their kitchen seemed to be the limit of what he wanted on his birthday. But Peter’s never been capable of leaving well enough alone, and it was second nature in him to push people. 

It didn’t mean he wanted to make Chris miserable, however. He thought that Chris would enjoy himself, provided he relaxed a little and stopped acting like he was about to face down a firing squad. 

"No, we're going,” Chris said after a moment, relinquishing his death grip on the armrest. He leaned over and kissed Peter. "I'll pretend to be really surprised."

He got out of the car, marching towards the door. Peter caught up to him halfway down the drive, fingertips light at the small of Chris's back. The door swung open before they had to knock, Scott popping up behind it. He was struggling to keep a straight face, Peter could already tell. But if this were actually a surprise, maybe Scott's expression (torn between ecstatic joy and grave seriousness) would be a dead giveaway. 

"Mr. Argent!" he said, and added, "Hey, Peter. Come on in. We're all in the back, since the weather's so nice out." 

Arching an eyebrow at him, Peter let it pass without comment. Scott herded them through the house towards the backyard, where there was a quiet murmur of activity, and the slowly rising, unmistakable aroma of barbecue. 

The second before they stepped into the backyard, he heard Stiles hissing out _shhh, they're coming_ \-- and the instant they stepped out into open air, there was a chorus of _happy birthday!_ , confetti popping into the air. It's a motley crew, most of the older pack present: Stiles, Malia, even Lydia, Melissa, Stilinski Sr, Parrish, and of course, Scott. 

"Oh," Peter said, glancing at beside him and feigning surprise, "is it your birthday, Chris?"

Chris elbowed him in the side and shot him a look. Peter resisted the urge to bat his eyelashes at him.

“It is,” Chris said. He even managed a small smile. Strained, but not fake. “I wasn’t expecting a party. Peter told me there was trouble.” 

“Sorry,” Scott said sheepishly. “There isn’t, it was just an excuse. You’re not mad, right?”

“I’m not mad, Scott,” Chris said, moving out of Peter’s reach to pat Scott on the shoulder.

Scott beamed, and the carefully organised group behind the table laden with food broke apart, milling around. Peter stuck to Chris. They were pack long before Chris turned, but every instinct in him wanted him to keep his only beta close, especially with another alpha around. 

The party, as promised, was low key and casual. More like any other gathering, apart from the big sheet cake on the center of the table, and how rare it was for everyone to get together like this without the threat of imminent doom pressing down on them. There’s no alcohol, not under the Sheriff’s watchful eye and a party full of teenagers, but the homemade lemonade was cold and tart on Peter’s tongue, sweet following on sour. 

Chris relaxed in increments, the stiff set of his shoulders unwinding. He leaned into Peter’s hold, hand on his knee while he talked with Stilinski and Parrish. Peter wasn’t paying attention anyway. 

Background chatter faded into indistinctiveness, blurring together. Someone was laughing. Malia was talking with Melissa and Lydia, obvious confusion in her tone. Scott and Stiles were whispering in a corner, the hush of it broken whenever Stiles got agitated. 

Derek and Laura used to rough house in the backyard of the house all the time. They were either co-conspirators or at each other’s throats. Cora would be sitting on the lawn, mashing legos together, while Talia argued with her husband over how long the corn should be cooked, and inevitably, everyone would fall on the food and bicker over it. They would laugh and they would argue, but it was family. Pack. 

_This_ wasn’t the same. He didn’t know if it would ever be the same. If he’d ever want it to be the same. But while it was different, it wasn’t all that bad. 

He squeezed Chris on the shoulder, and brushed his lips against his ear. “Be right back.” 

The lemonade was calling him, and so were the nachos. Stilinski and Parrish had the decency for to wait for him to be out of human hearing before they started in on Chris. Peter tuned it out. He’s heard it all by now. 

At the food table, he refilled his cup, and stacked up a plate of dip and chips to share with Chris. Someone cleared their throat. Stiles. Peter looked up, raising an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “you can, actually. By chilling it about 200% with the PDA.” 

“No can do. Birthday boy’s request.” 

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “What? Seriously?” 

Peter smirked at him. 

“Ugh, I don’t wanna know.” 

“We haven’t even made out yet. I wasn’t aware hand-holding’s become an excessive display of affection. Besides, you’re friends with Scott.”

“I will throw up on your fancy shoes if you do,” Stiles said. “Don’t think I won’t. And that’s different, that’s Scott. He’s normal, and you two are--”

Stiles flapped his hands in a gesture that Peter assumed meant _murderous_ and _has tried to murder him before._

“Nice talk,” he said. Stiles wasn’t intolerable, but he could be annoying. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m bringing these back to Chris.” 

“Wait,” Stiles said. He looked at the nachos. At Peter. Then over to where Chris was now engaged in a round of cards with the Sheriff and his deputy. 

“What do you want, Stiles?”

“You still owe me a favour. For helping you with the alpha thing.” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I know. Are you calling it in?”

“No, just reminding you.” 

“Consider me reminded,” Peter said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Scott and Melissa drifting towards Chris.

“Also, you seem a lot more stable than you were last time,” Stiles said. 

“Or I’m biding my time,” Peter said. 

“Peter,” Chris called, twisted around in his seat, “come on, I know you can sweep everyone under the rug at poker.” 

Peter headed for Chris, ignoring Stiles’s squawk of _what? Are you serious?_ from behind him. 

The party wrapped up a couple of hours later, cleanup made quick with all the hands on deck. Car doors slammed, a final round of birthday wishes aimed Chris’s way, and they were off.

The apartment’s dark by the time they get in until Chris flicked the lights, a habit he had yet to grow out of. Peter shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it up. He reeled Chris in for a kiss right after, drawn out and slow. 

“Congratulations,” he said after, “you survived.” 

Chris looked like he was torn between calling Peter out for being a smug asshole, and smiling. He settled for neutral. “Yeah, it wasn’t that bad. I had fun. It was nice having everyone together like that.” 

“And nobody even got hurt.” 

“John looked like he was going to shoot you for cheating at poker.” 

They made their way to the bedroom, Peter disappearing into the closet, saying over his shoulder, “He'd have to prove I was cheating first.” 

He came back out holding a small chest, the polished wood grain gleaming under the light. Chris looked at it, and looked at Peter. 

“You got me something?” 

Peter pushed the box into his hands. “Well, I haven’t since the adder stone, and that doesn’t really count, no matter how attached you are to it. It seemed overdue.” Plus, it’s your birthday, he didn’t say. Chris already knew. “I can’t return it, so you should just accept it.” 

Chris took it, and said, “I like the stone.” 

He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the chest. The pistol laid on a bed of plush velvet, in perfect condition, the raised scrolling along it eye-catching. Chris picked it up carefully, examining it. 

“I don’t know anything about guns,” Peter said. Aside from the research he did for this particular present, and whatever he’d picked up from Chris through proximity. This one was old and expensive and shiny, which fitted the criteria for what he wanted to get Chris.

“It’s beautiful,” Chris said, face soft. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to. And now you have something else to put in your office aside from that hideous thing hanging in there,” Peter said, reaching for safer territory. 

“She’s not a thing, she has a name.” 

“The other woman,” Peter said, glib. 

Chris snorted. He closed the box and set it to the side with reverent hands, and pulled Peter in. They kissed until Peter’s lips went numb and he was full with a pleasant buzz, a champagne bubble fizziness. He slid his hands under Chris’s shirt. 

Later, in the dark, Chris said to him, “They don’t get it.” 

Peter’s on the verge of dozing off, face to face with Chris. He could feel his breath on every exhale. “What?”

“Us. They don't understand what I see in you.” 

“I don't care what they think,” Peter said. 

“I do,” Chris said, sourness colouring his scent. “When they look at you, all they see is the psychotic killer, not _you_.”

“I did kill a few people.”

“So did I.”

“You're actively penitent, I'm not. You'd be surprised what a difference it makes.”

Appearances were everything sometimes, and Peter's sure if he'd ever shown anything like remorse for what he did, maybe people would've been more understanding. But he didn't and wouldn't. He did what he had to. 

He pressed his forehead against Chris's, finding his hand and twining their fingers together. “And you're on the side of good.”

“You're good to me,” Chris said, squeezing Peter's hand.

“Isn't that all that matters?” Peter asked. 

Chris was silent for so long that Peter thought he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he said, “I love you.”

Three simple words, and Peter never could say them back when he should. Not since the fire. Chris knew he was getting damaged goods; Peter had told him as much the first time Chris said it to him.

“And I know you love me too,” Chris continued. “Even if you can't say it, it's fine. I get it.”

Tightness constricted his chest. He held onto Chris like a lifeline, and Chris bore it without complaint. He said after a minute, “I know.” And, “go to sleep, Chris.”

Chris kissed his temple, arms wrapped around him. The sound of his breathing evening out grounded Peter, and eventually, long after Chris had fallen asleep, he drifted off too.


	3. see it to believe it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the kind of shovel talk Chris was expecting.

“This is really weird,” Cora says, arms crossed, eyebrows halfway to her hairline.

Chris wonders if that’s a Hale trait. The eyebrow thing. Peter does it so often and so well that Chris suspects he practices. 

He shrugs. “Tell me about it.” 

They’re sitting across from each other in a cafe in downtown Beacon Hills, Chris with a cup of black coffee, Cora with something sweet and milky and completely at odds with the sulky set of her features. She looks a lot like Derek when she’s frowning, Chris notes absently, taking a sip of his coffee, trying to cover for the awkward pause in their conversation. Peter is notably absent. He almost wishes he were here, because Peter is good at talking. 

But Cora invited him, and for all that Peter’s practically estranged from his family, well. Maybe he’s hoping that this will help them reconnect. And maybe, less selflessly, he has questions he wants to ask Cora too. They haven’t spoken before, not for the short time she was in Beacon Hills, nor since everything else happened. It’s been over a year, Chris thinks. Closer to two.

“You know you reek of him, right?” Cora says, wrinkling her nose. “Like you guys rubbed all over each other.” 

“We live together,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.” 

“God,” she says, “ _so weird_.”

“I thought Peter used to be married.” 

Cora narrows her eyes at him. “Who told you that?”

“He did.” 

“I don’t really remember that much,” she says after a moment. “But he was.” 

“What was her name?” he asks. 

“He never told you?”

“It isn’t really,” Chris says, and stops. “He only mentioned his anniversary once. We don’t talk about the past that much.”

Because between the two of them, it would only dredge up old hurts. And yeah, Peter used to do that all the time. Used history as a weapon, used it to get under Chris’s skin and drag things that happened before over Chris’s joints like the point of a knife. It doesn’t happen as much anymore. Not unless he’s pissed off. 

Cora doesn’t seem like she wants to answer for a moment, and Chris remembers belatedly that she would’ve been her aunt, and it must hurt as much for her as it does Peter. He’s about to tell her never mind, forget it, when she says, “Aunt Ava. She liked to read. They had this competition where they’d try to find each other books they hadn’t read before.” She pauses, frowning. “One time she dropped one on my head and bribed me with ice cream.”

A flash of a conversation he had with Peter once runs through his head, of Peter telling him about Cora learning to ride a bike, about how it’s hard to cry around a mouthful of ice cream. 

“What are you smiling at?” Cora says. 

Chris’s smile fades a little, and he shakes his head. “Peter mentioned it before. Said that when you fell and skinned your knee, he’d get you ice cream to make you stop crying.” 

“He used to take all of us out for ice cream.” Cora Hale is hard to read, and she’s been wearing the same scowl the entire time they’ve been talking. If she was a little older, Chris might think that Peter’s the one who taught her that too. How to keep a poker face.

“I can see it.” 

“Really?” she says, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “He’s good to people he cares about.” 

“Then why did he kill Laura?”

The question sounds like an accusation, but it isn’t meant for him. He knows that. He doesn’t know why Peter did it, or why Peter thinks he did it. Peter never said.

“He never told me why,” Chris says. “But I figured him going crazy from the fire had something to do with it.”

“Does that make it okay?” The lid pops off of her cup, and Cora eases her grip on it instantly. Chris nudges the lid back over to her side of the table.

“I don't think he thinks it does,” he offers, not saying what he really wants to say. That he thinks she'd have a better chance of getting something from Peter himself. 

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“I get it,” she says, shrugging, “we're all messed up. None of us are the same people anymore. Even though we're supposed to be family, we’re broken.”

“Why did you invite me here?” he asks, unable to resist any longer.

“Wanted to see if it's true.”

“That Peter and I are together?” 

Cora rolls her eyes. “What else?”

Chris looks at her, and Cora stares back. 

“We are,” he says.

“Yeah, I kind of figured from the eau de Peter you're slathered in.” 

Even when he takes a surreptitious sniff at himself, Chris can't smell anything all that different about himself. But it hasn't been that long since he changed. Maybe he just doesn't know how to pick up on whatever it is Cora has. Or maybe they've just been together for long enough that by the time Chris could do this, Peter's long since made himself a part of his scent. 

Cora catches him at it and smirks. “Bet you can't tell.”

“It's fine,” he says. “I don't mind it. You know why Peter asked you to come back, right?”

“He wants to tear down the house,” she says.

“To rebuild.”

“I don't care,” Cora says with sudden vehemence. “He can do it. It'll be better than leaving it there like that.”

“We're going to build it farther back from where it is right now,” he says. “Peter wants a garden where the house was.” 

He wants to choke the tunnels and underground routes with dirt, make it so no one could ever use them again, he told Chris. He wants to grow something from where he lost everything, something living because he's had enough of the dead. Because he's still here, he's still alive. They’re still alive.

“You're helping him with it,” Cora says, more a statement than a question. 

“Yeah,” he says, “but I think he cares about what you think too.”

“Because it was my house too,” she says. 

“Because you're family,” Peter says, dropping in the chair beside Chris. Both Chris and Cora startle in their seats, glaring at him. Peter holds his hands up. “What, neither of you heard me coming? You're the worst werewolves I've ever met.”

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Cora asks.

“I saw you through the window,” he said.

“Were you stalking me?” Chris asks.

“Or me?” says Cora.

“Why does no one ever believe anything I say?” Peter says, rolling his eyes. He slings an arm around Chris and Chris can't help himself; he melts into it. “It was a coincidence. But I mean it. You're family, Cora. You'll always have a home here.”

“I don't know if I'll ever want to live here again,” she says.

“You don't have to. But if you ever need somewhere to go, you can come here,” Peter says.

“I'll think about it.”

“We'll paint one of the guest bedrooms pink for you,” Peter promises, and fakes a wince so exaggerated when Cora reaches over and punches him that the coffees nearly spill.

“Ignore him,” Chris says. “What's your favourite colour?”

Cora purses her lips together. “Yellow.”

“You think I don't already know her favourite colour?” Peter says to Chris.

Chris takes his own advice and ignores him. “We'll paint it yellow.”

Cora's mouth twitches at the corners. “I want an ensuite bathroom. And a TV.” When neither Chris nor Peter stop her, she adds, “And at least a queen sized bed.”

“Sure,” Chris says. 

“I like him better than you,” she informs Peter, who's watching the proceedings with thinly veiled fascination. 

“No you don't,” he says with a smile. He gets up, squeezing Chris on the shoulder. “I'm going to get a drink. Chris, Cora-- refills?”

Both of them decline. Once he’s gone, they’re left in a little bubble of silence in the coffee shop again.

“This is weird,” Cora finally says.

“You said that already,” Chris points out. 

“He likes you.” 

“I know he does.” Because what else is he supposed to say? He knows how Peter feels. Took them a hell of a long time to get to this point, but he knows. 

“He _like_ likes you.” 

“What’s repeating the word twice supposed to do?” he asks, unable to resist. 

Cora squints at him. 

Chris squints back.

“Okay,” Cora says, “fine.”

“Thanks,” Chris says. “Buy you another coffee?”

“No, make Uncle Peter do it.” 

“I’ll make him get you the largest size,” Chris promises. 

He catches himself smiling on the way up to the cash register, and doesn’t bother to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr.](https://corrosivity.tumblr.com/) :)


	4. turn of the year

The holidays swing into Beacon Hills in a flurry of Christmas music and lights strung up around the bare branches downtown— artificial winter leaves, bright and festive during the cold nights. Peter finds them charming. He even finds the mistletoe hung in the doorways of the local coffee shops, the public library, the mall, and so on and so forth bearable. More than that, if he’s being honest, when he manages to catch Chris under it while they’re out together. And he does manage to twice— Chris looked like he’d rather die than kiss him on both occasions, especially when after Peter coaxed him into it the second time, he went from a chaste, sweet peck to a showy dip and kiss. 

“Try that again and I will bite your mouth off,” Chris threatened. The tips of his ears are red. People are staring.

“Good thing I’d heal,” Peter said, smirking. Chris had rolled his eyes at him and reeled Peter in against his side anyway, so Peter counted that as a win. 

Christmas isn’t his favourite holiday by any means, but it’s hard not to get caught up in the atmosphere. And, part of him realises, this is the first holiday season in a long time that he hasn’t had to spend alone. Cora is back in town to visit, stamping downstairs every morning complaining about how cold it is, her feet shoved into a pair of fluffy slippers. The walls of her room are yellow. Even Derek becomes a semi-permanent fixture in the house. Malia shows up on occasion, lured by the promise of food, and drags Stiles along with her.

On the longest night of the year, the house comes alive. Light shines from the windows. Cora slaps Derek on the shoulder, tells him he’s it, and races off into the preserve.

“I’m not—” Derek growls, and does a half turn on the lawn, looking for a closer victim. Everyone fans out away from him. He sighs, and jogs off after Cora. 

It’s an old Hale tradition. The pack would look for the perfect Yule log to burn, and wait out the night together. 

Malia elbows Peter in the ribs. “So you really want us to just find any old log and bring it back?” 

“Not any old log,” Peter says. His attention is half caught on Chris, who is striding through the trees, examining every tree and fallen log he passes with utmost seriousness. “The best log you can find. Preferably big and relatively dry.” There hasn’t been any rain recently, so that shouldn’t be hard. 

“Any old big dry log, got it,” Malia says. 

Peter pauses. He shrugs, and says, “Yes.” 

“Well, why didn’t you just say that earlier?” Malia says, and wanders off. 

Peter huffs under his breath. The ground is packed dirt, some of it frozen where the sunlight has yet to have a chance to shine on it. But it isn’t dead. Underneath his feet, life thrums, dormant. The land recognises him, the oldest werewolf on ancestral territory. Peter runs his hands over the rough bark of the trees he passes, fingertips dragging. 

Further and deeper in the preserve, he can hear his packfamily spread out, their heartbeats distinct above the ambient noise. It’s quiet. An hour slides by, then two. 

Chris circles back around to him next, hands in his pocket. He looks pleased with himself. “Think I found one.” 

“Show me,” Peter says, catching Chris’s wrist, and Chris pulls him deeper into the woods.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They end up with about seven logs, and Derek’s beats out the rest by unanimous decision. Malia sulks, and so does Cora— even Chris does, albeit quietly, but one glance at Derek trying to hide his smile with a glower has Cora punching Derek on the shoulder and telling him she’ll get him next year; Malia is placated when Peter asks her to drag the log into the fire pit they’ve set up for this purpose. Chris is just competitive. He’ll get over it. 

Dusk is falling by the time the log is lit and burning, the crackle of flames licking at the blue sky. The fire bothers him less than most people would think. It’s a contained blaze, after all, and Peter understands well enough that fire is only as good or evil as it’s used for. Besides, the chill is setting in by now, and the warmth it throws off is nothing like the burn so hot it was cold that lapped and ate him up years ago. 

They eat barbecue on the cushioned wicker furniture, Peter curled up next to Chris. 

“This is good,” Chris says, licking the sauce from his fingers. Peter’s eyes go molten and he tracks Chris’s tongue. Chris notices him looking, and the corner of his mouth tips up into a smirk. 

Peter retaliates by stealing some ribs off Chris’s plate. He grabs Chris when he tries to take them back, and licks his palm in one broad stroke instead, tasting the salt of his skin, the smoky flavour of the ribs, and something inherently Chris. “Finders keepers,” Peter said. 

“Your own ribs are right there,” Chris says, and wipes his palm off on the front of Peter’s shirt. Peter growls, just a little, because he knows Chris knows he hates that. Chris flashes his eyes at him. There is a brief scuffle where Peter tries to hang onto both his own plate and the ribs he stole from Chris, and it culminates in Chris stealing his back and eating them in three bites, fangs crunching through bone. He stares Peter down while he chews, and Peter snorts. Settles back onto his side of the couch and eats his own food. 

The stories start after that. Ghost stories, as a general rule, though the definition of that ranged from the cliche to personal, weird encounters. They go around in a circle, one after the other. Cora, Derek, Malia, Chris, Peter. The hour draws longer, but their voices fill up the dark. 

Malia ends up gravitating towards Peter, sprawling over her chair and spilling onto Peter’s. Peter doesn’t question it, doesn’t want to spook her off after he’s done his best to be what he couldn’t be for years, so he lets her be. 

Derek and Cora fall asleep first, tilted against each other, Cora snoring softly. Malia follows. Chris leans against Peter’s shoulder, face half pressed against his collarbone. 

The ferocious rush of possessiveness that follows isn’t unusual. He and Chris are wound together tight in their hurts and past and present and future, beta and alpha, lover to lover. Peter rests his hand between Chris’s shoulder blades, and Chris makes a faint noise of contentment. 

They doze, watching the fire burn itself lower and lower until it sputters out while the first tinges of eggshell blue stretches across the sky.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Christmas is slow and sleepy, accompanied by a fine dusting of white over everything. The trees look like powdered sugar spilled over them, and so does the lawn. 

The melancholy in Chris’s scent lasts through the morning, and by evening, Peter finds him in the study with a tumbler in his hand, whiskey bottle on the desk. The whiskey is laced with wolfsbane; it was a gift from him. Chris is knocking it back like it’s water. 

How many times before has Peter found him like this? He’s lost count. Less now than before, however. 

Peter doesn’t take the glass from him. He pulls open the drawer and gets one for himself, pouring a few fingers into it without a word. It goes down smooth. He perches himself on the edge of the desk, next to Chris. They drink in silence. 

Eventually, Chris rests his head against Peter’s stomach. Peter cards his hands through his hair, feeling Chris shudder under his touch. 

“I miss them.” Chris says it so quietly Peter almost misses it. The hitch in his breath, he doesn’t miss. 

“I know,” he says. Because he didn't miss how Chris’s eyes would linger after Cora said something borderline affectionate to Peter, or how Derek managed to hug him without mauling him, or Malia's genuine pleasure when tearing open the gift Peter got her— the fragmented pieces of what was left of his family ground to soft edges like how time and the surf eventually wore glass down to sand. It’s a family holiday, and Chris doesn't have any family left. Peter hasn't forgotten how it used to be. He wonders if Allison loved Christmas. 

Chris presses closer. 

Peter isn't good at this. His inherent selfishness and the critical lack of human empathy even before the fire burned out what little of that existed in him was apparent, and nowadays, despite Chris thinking the best of him, Peter isn't made for comfort. He's better at cleanup, at precise and careful vengeance culminating in him ripping out the insides of whoever hurt him and his than knowing just when a gentle squeeze or reassuring touch has maximum effect.

Which isn't to say he hasn't learned how to fake some approximation of it, because empathy gets him what he wants plenty of times, but with Chris— he went through all of that before to win his trust. Somewhere along the way, Chris won his in return. Peter doesn't want to feign anything; he wants to be the best he can be: a kinder, softer version of himself. 

Maybe it’s enough that he’s here. Chris is just as bad, if not worse, at accepting comfort and reassurance as Peter. 

He stays. He stays and holds Chris while Chris shudders against him, and when that stops, he cups his face, tilting it up towards him, and kisses Chris with utmost tenderness. Not because he thinks Chris will crumble into pieces or that he’s fragile, but because Chris deserves a little niceness after everything.

Chris is docile after that, swaying on his feet as he lets Peter lead them to their bed and undress him. He reeks of whiskey and sour hurt, and Peter aggressively scents him until it starts to fade. He wraps himself around Chris and tucks him into the curve of his own body.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chris goes out on boxing day, and comes back smelling like graveyard dirt and flowers, but also of hard won peace. Peter lets it be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


New Year’s Eve falls on the full moon. The kids have cleared out of the house in favour of a party at Lydia’s, which Peter is sure will end up out of hand, but as long as he doesn’t get called to bury any bodies, it isn’t his problem. 

The house doesn’t feel empty though. There are belongings scattered everywhere, mostly not his, but certain other people tended to be messier than him. It smells like home. It also smells like Chris’s frustration, and sounds like him growling out, “Again.” 

Peter obliges. It’s easy when the moon is already a pale, round coin in the sky, to let the wolf emerge from beneath his skin and take over until the world drops and he lands on four paws. He nudges Chris’s hand with his nose, tongue lolling out when Chris rubs the base of his ears with his thumb. 

Then he sits back on his haunches, and peers at Chris expectantly. 

Chris stares back, eyebrows furrowed together. He wolfs out, but that’s as far as it gets. A sigh expands from him, and he leans back down, running his fingers through the thick ruff of Peter’s fur. 

“I don't think I can do it,” Chris says. Peter whines, and butts his head against Chris’s hip. Chris nearly staggers, and grabs Peter’s muzzle in retaliation. Peter just opens his jaw as wide as he can and licks relentlessly at Chris’s fingers until Chris gets tired of being covered in slobber. 

He shifts back and stretches out, nude as the day he was born, on the living room area rug. 

“You’ll get it eventually,” Peter says, dragging his fingers along the turn of Chris’s ankle, dancing them over his shin. “Once you learn to let go.” 

Because Chris is nothing if not uptight, and he’s had over forty years of being human under his belt compared to the bare year or so of being a werewolf. But he’s tenacious enough that Peter’s sure he won’t give up on the full shift just yet. 

Chris makes a disgruntled noise, and palms the back of Peter’s head. “Whenever that is.” 

Peter looks up at him from underneath his lashes, and grins when Chris’s scent spikes with arousal. He reaches for his belt. “Oh, I can think of a few ways to help you loosen up.” 

And then they’re distracted, at least for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s near midnight when Chris starts to get that wild look in his eye, and Peter herds him out the door into the night. They lope through the preserve and play tag, each subsequent tap growing harder and harder until the last time Chris is it, he tackles Peter onto the forest floor. Peter hits the ground hard enough for everything in him to jar, and rolls with it. They tussle. Sometimes Peter claws to the top, sometimes Chris does. 

He can’t pinpoint when exactly the roughhousing turns into kissing, but there’s always been a fine line between fuck and fight for them, and Chris is all dark chocolate and shockingly sweet center melting on his tongue. 

“You’re ruining my coat,” Peter says to him while Chris bites his way down his neck, the alpha only allowing it because it’s a pushover for Chris, and Chris is its favourite beta. 

Chris is unconcerned. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

Peter huffs, but leaves Chris to lie on top of him and wraps one arm loosely around him. They make out for a while longer like teenagers. Then a centipede crawls past Peter too close for comfort in the dead leaves, and he shoves Chris off. Chris laughs at him, the chuff of it low and deep in his chest, and Peter ignores it with utmost dignity. 

They amble over the small wooden bridge stretched over the creek and stop there, listening to the water run over the rocks. The trees thin out here, and the sky stretches overhead, a vast, glittering canvas of stars attending to the moon. Wolf Moon. Peter tips his head back. His breath mists the air in front of him. 

“Pretty,” Chris says, shoulder warm against Peter’s. 

“It is, isn’t it?” 

“Bet you’re glad you stuck around.” 

“I could say the same to you.” 

“I am,” Chris says, fond. “You know that.” 

“It never hurts to hear it.” Peter turns, and runs his thumb along the curve of Chris’s jaw, which is more beard than anything. It’s soft under the pad of his thumb because Chris is meticulous in taking care of it; he’s seen his routine. People would be surprised by it. “I’m happy.” 

“That’s almost sweet, coming from you,” Chris says. 

“Only almost?” Peter purrs. He’s leaking contentment everywhere, but so is Chris, so that’s fine. 

“Too many puppy dog tails, not enough of everything nice,” Chris says with a straight face. 

Peter throws his head back and laughs. The sound rings loud and clear, and when he kisses Chris, the echo of it lingers in his ears. 

Followed by a pop and a whistle. They startle apart. Overhead, fireworks light up the sky. Green— red— gold— the colours play in Chris’s pale eyes, and Peter is transfixed. 

The fireworks lose their charm; Chris kisses Peter, hand a steady pressure on the nape of his neck. Anchoring him. Peter sighs, and leans into him. 

“Happy New Year,” he says. 

“Happy New Year, Peter,” Chris says, and Peter wonders if he knows how impossibly adoring he sounds. It’s enough to make something in him twist up in a frenzy, and leaves the wolf flipping between biting and wanting to show its belly. 

“To us.” 

“You’re wishing we were back inside with champagne, aren’t you?” 

“Just a little,” Peter says, “less than you’d think.” He twists free from Chris, pecks him once on the lips, and says, “you’re it.” 

He takes off before Chris can say a word, the wind in his hair, the moon up above, and the fireworks raining down sparks. 

Sometime in the night, Chris slips right into the full shift, clothes left abandoned in his wake. He stumbles on his paws, and eats dirt while Peter laughs. He’s gorgeous, all ash grey fur and blue eyes. Peter pets him, and Chris growls. He gets back on his feet and gets the hang of walking in no time at all, nipping at Peter until Peter gives in and joins him. The preserve sings under his paws, the land’s acknowledgement crackling in his veins.

Peter howls; Chris stands at attention, ears pricked forward and tail high behind him. From across town, he hears the howls carried back on the wind: _we’re here_ , and _hello_. Beside him, Chris warbles, tries again, and his howl joins Peter’s next. 

They run.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, they startle two hikers getting an early start on their New Year’s resolutions with full frontal nudity, and end up having to bolt back to the house completely naked. 

Peter’s lovely coat is lost somewhere in the forest, but that’s all right. Chris makes good on his word and buys him another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year!


End file.
